


On Tides of Longing and Time

by AZ-5 (elim_garak), Valonqar (elim_garak)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Character Death Fix, Love, Magic, Multi, Post-Finale, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-07 10:32:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19207582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elim_garak/pseuds/AZ-5, https://archiveofourown.org/users/elim_garak/pseuds/Valonqar
Summary: Once upon a time there was a little girl who loved her father very much.She grew up swaddled in love and bliss, in a tall tower overlooking the Blackwater bay. With her mother (who indeed swore an oath "to hold no lands and titles and to father no children" but onlyaftershe "mothered" one, because, really, her mother had NEVER been known to break an oath), her uncle (who, by his own admission, adored her more than he could his own child, and who was the sweetest, wisest and funniest man she'd ever met), her mother's  former squire (and the only one toeverbe able to sing her to sleep), and  her best friend, the Three-Eyed Raven, whom her mother was sworn to protect, and who knew more bedtime stories than a child could possibly wish for. Including her favorite kind - tales of her father, a bold and beautiful knight of the Seven Kingdoms, who lived and died for those he loved.She was born in the wake of the Long Night out of love and joy tinged with sorrow and bane into a world that to many appeared quite perfect; but to a chosen few - felt wrong.





	1. Prologue - There isn't a Man Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Been walking around with this little girl and her story in my head for a long time. 
> 
> After all, time travel is _kinda_ magic, isn't it? 
> 
> Shall we begin, then?

“Where was the child born?”

Echoing through the stale, musty air, the sound comes without warning, startling him into near stupor as he feels the blood turning to icy sludge in his veins.

He squints, struggling once again - and equally in vain - to adjust his vision to the dark interior of the room where he’s spent the last gods-know-how-many hours waiting for— well, as it turns out,  _ this. _

Pushing through the gnawing anxiety, he clears his throat.

“The reason I’m here is…”  _ Uhm, manners, Tyrion, manners.  _ He stops, coughing into his fist before starting over: “My Lady—”  _ It *is* a *Lady*, is it not? Oh for fuck’s sake - FOCUS!  _ “My Lady, my name is—”

“I know who you are,” the voice interrupts. It is louder this time around, sharper, and, despite a distinct rasp to it, unmistakably female. “I know where you came from, Tyrion of House Lannister, Hand of the King to Brandon the Broken of House Stark, first of his name. I know why you’re here. You’ve spent years looking for me. Away from your duties, those you love, resting places of those you mourn still. You’ve traveled further than most, crossed many seas, traversed many lands. And now that at long last you’re here, you trouble your weary mind with names and titles, yet you would not answer my question.” 

_ Right. _ “Forgive me, my Lady, I only meant— ”

“I am no lady. As you are no lord, not in this place. Tyrion of House Lannister, I have asked you a question: where was the child born?”

He twists in his chair to sit up higher, a hopeless affair that fuels him with confidence nonetheless. “The child?”

“Aye. The child. A girl with hair the color of seared bronze and eyes of emerald beryl, born of hope and despair in the wake of the great war.”

“Winterfell,” Tyrion gulps, and, seeing how for a long while the only sound in the room is that of his ragged breathing, adds: “She was born in Winterfell. In the North.”

In the deafening silence that follows, to his horror, he can see a dark shadow detach itself from the wall on the opposite side of the room. Before he can wiggle deeper into his chair - not to mention contemplate the  _ futility _ of the act - there’s a cold, damp finger under his chin, tilting his head upwards where his eyes are met with a blank stare of two gaping holes on a flickering canvas of ashen face. 

“It is true then,” the witch says. 

He gasps, struggling - and failing - to appear unfazed. “Is it?”

“What they say. About the world. The mistakes that were made. Lives - lost, all in vain. They say the Wanderer is upon us. A chance to unmake the past. A  _ gift.” _

Finally able to tether himself to the moment, Tyrion shakes himself free. “A gift. Yes. Which is why I am here, of course. The gift. Or— Is it? A gift, I mean? What we’ve seen—”

“What you’ve seen are powers.  _ Terrible _ powers. Only whispers of it. No books in chains, no ancient scrolls to mention it. Whispers alone. Tales. Fables. Of a power so great it is where all others come from: the magic, the Gods, old and new, drowned and faceless alike.”

He swallows the lump of dread gathering in his throat. “A power to do  _ what _ exactly?”

The witch leans closer, making him wince as the tide of her foul breath covers his face. “Unmake the world as we know it.”

_ Right. And they say witches always speak in riddles...  _ He draws a deep breath. “I believe there’s been a misunderstanding. See, the reason I’m here is—”

“Your niece,” she hisses, and his heart flips and falls. “You’re here because you’ve seen things you cannot explain.” Her cold, clammy palm comes up to cover the side of his face, sending a wave of gooseflesh spikes down his arms and chest. “You’re here because you want to help. Because not even your king, the Three-Eyed Raven, can explain what’s been happening to her every night since she was still suckling at her mother’s breast. You’re here…” Her voice changes, carrying notes of sadness now that chill his blood. “...because deep in your heart you  _ know, _ Tyrion of House Lannister, you’ve  _ always _ known: your brother’s child, the only thing you have left of him, blood of your blood, the little girl that you love more than you thought it possible to love  _ anything  _ in this world - she is not  _ of _ this world.”

He feels his face twitching as tears spear through his eyes. Whatever strength, whatever courage he thought he still had, evaporates in an instant. For a moment all he can see is a flash of fiery gold curls as, giggling and squealing, she lunges into his arms from across the room, tiny feet thumping on wooden floor. Blood of his blood? His fists clench. She’s more than blood of his blood, more than the only thing that’s left of his family, more than the heir to Casterly Rock, she’s—

“Please,” he  mouths, a voiceless plea, as tears of despair pool in his eyes. “She’s all I have.”

The witch shakes her head. “She is not yours to have. Nor her mother’s. The Wanderer’s path is their own. And so is their doom.”

His heart erupts with terror and dread. “Their d—” 

Her face is expressionless still as she speaks the words that shatter the last of his hopes. 

“The Wanderer’s path lies between this world and the world to come. To unmake the world to which you were born is to unmake your own existence.” She leans closer, holding his harrowed stare. “I am sorry you traveled so far in vain, Tyrion of House Lannister. For I cannot help you. The child shall die bringing back what was lost. And there isn't a man alive that can change that." 


	2. Your Brother's Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Bran is cool, Pod is adorable, Tyrion is plotting (duh), Brienne is oblivious (for which they will all pay dearly, of course), and Jo is a cheeky mini-daddy who's being taught to discover some of her powers to protect her from who she really is.

“Your Grace, I’m under strict orders from Lord Commander to _not,_ under _any_ circumstances, leave my post.” 

In fact, ‘strict orders’ doesn’t _begin_ to cover the extent of Brienne’s - uhm, let’s call it _misgivings,_ shall we? _-_ about her king’s newly acquired habit of occasionally dismissing his entire personal Kingsguard detail whenever - and this is an actual quote - “... _he desires some quiet time”._ Fidgeting under the king’s bemused stare, Podrick can see the final line of his White Book entry practically writing itself: _Executed by his Lord Commander for failing to exert sufficient amount of assertiveness while being ordered by his King to abandon his post... Again._

Bran arches a sly brow. “You’re under strict orders to defy your _king’s_ orders?”

 _Seven Hells._ “Well, no. But—”

“Ser Podrick,” Bran quips, leaning forward. “It’s a rather pleasant evening, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Well—”

“Do you drink?”

“Your Grace?”

“It’s a yes or no question, Ser Podrick.”

“No, Your Grace. I mean yes, it is - a yes or no question, that is. And no, I don’t drink. Ser Brienne—”

“...is your Lord Commander, Ser Podrick, not your mother. You’re a thirty year old knight and you’re off duty. Last _I_ checked, there was nothing in the Kingsguard oath about swearing off drinking. _Or_ fun.”

 _There would be if it were Ser_ Brienne _who wrote it._ “But Your Grace—”

“Would you rather spend the night in the Black Cells for disobeying your king?”

“No, Your Grace.”

Slowly, Bran leans back in his wheelchair, granting the fidgeting mess of a knight in front of him a gracious nod. “Have a pleasant night, Ser Podrick.”

 _White Book it is then._ Heaving in resignation, Pod straightens his stance.

“And you, Your Grace,” he bows, palm on the hilt of his sword, and, before backing away, repeats the ritual while half-turned to the right. “My Lady.”

Splayed on her front on the marble floor, her bare feet swinging above her, the only other occupant of the throne room nonchalantly flips a page of the huge, dusty tome between her elbows, before finally emerging from under a bronze avalanche of shimmering curls.

“You look worried, Pod,” she says, every freckle lining up with that sly, pixie smile that’s been melting his heart every day of the last decade. “Doesn’t he look worried, Bran?”

“Your _Grace,”_ Pod corrects (because, really, as soon as Brienne gets wind of this, he’ll need every point he can get). He does his damnedest to hold back a smile of his own, a task which, _Gods know,_ she’s _never_ made easy.

“Mother says I’m allowed to call him Bran when no one else is around.”

Pod squints. He may have found his peace with repeatedly losing at verbal sparring - and every other kind of sparring, really - to her _mother._ But he’s _not_ about to lose to a ten-year-old whom he was singing to sleep back when she could still fit in his forearm.

 _“_ Well , _I'm_ around,” he ribs.

Bran lifts a finger, shaking his head in exasperation. “Excellent point, Ser Podrick. And _why_ is that again?”

The girl nestles her chin in her palms, grinning wider. “Yes, Pod. Why _is_ that? Are you _sure_ it has nothing to do with the fact that you’re concerned for your king’s safety if left alone with the daughter of a renowned Kingsl—”

Her hand flies to her mouth, choking the rest of the word before it is fully spoken. The two men in the room simultaneously exhale their relief. While it’s true that Brienne of Tarth is an honorable, fairly reasonable woman who’s rather fond of her former squire, entirely devoted to the king she’s sworn to protect, and over-the-hilt in love with her only daughter, there are rules in her life that are NOT meant to be broken. And, well, referring to Ser Jaime Lannister by _“that despicable nickname”_ is where the system tends to break down.

Podrick’s eyebrows slink up in what appears to be the most tentative display of triumph in history.

“You were saying, Jo?” he quips.

“Pleeeeease don’t tell mother,” a weak plea reaches out from between the girls fingers.

“Oh really? And what’s in it for me?”

Her hand slides down just a little as an impish spark returns to the bottomless depths of muddy green eyes. “Well, for _one,_ when she asks how I enjoyed my time with _His Grace_ here—” _Oh, he’s fucked._ “...I _might_ say that it was alright, apart from the fact that the whole time we feared for our safety, seeing how the king’s guard on duty never showed up—”

“Jo—” Even when said as a joke, the prospect makes him painfully aware that every pore on his forehead is spitting out beads of cold sweat.

"Or I _could_ say that the three of us had the most wonderful time discussing ways to increase security during our upcoming errand traveling North.”

They say there are ancient tribes in Essos, east of Dothraki Sea, where descendant’s kinship can only be traced through the female line - a _‘fun fact’,_ otherwise known as one of the countless bits of trivia that clutter up Tyrion’s brain and spill out whenever the added volume of wine causes the contents of said brain to exceed its capacity. And, while seemingly useless, this particular anecdote has brought on quite a bit of pondering on Pod’s part, because: _a_ \- the guard’s duty is fairly boring and, on most days, pondering is the only thing that’s keeping him sane; and _b_ \- seeing how the loins out of which one is pulled is about the _only_ indisputable fact about one’s origins, he’s always found the idea of matrilineage quite compelling.

...Point is—

Truth be told, Pod had only met the renowned Kingsl— _Ser Jaime Lannister_ a handful of times, thus rendering his opinion on matters of familial resemblance speculative at best. Yet, in moments like this it stands out a mile, really: from the teasing tone of her voice to the taunting tilt of her head, from the sly squint of her eyes to the willful set of her jaw - Joanna Lannister is her father’s daughter, body and soul, no matter _whose_ loins she came from.

“Your secret is safe with me, My Lady,” he surrenders with another bow, lifting his eyes just in time to catch her half-leap as she finally slams into him for their long overdue goodnight ritual.

He swings her up, holding her to him fully wrapped in his arms, his armored shoulders locked between hers. “So—” he whispers at last, propping her higher. ”Where to tonight?”

He feels her face in the crook of his neck melt into a joyful smile. “You _know_ where.”

“Of course.”

“Wish you could come to.”

He presses a kiss to the side of her head. “So do I, Jo. But I’m sure you and _Bran_ will have fun.”

She pulls away, nose wrinkled, one eyebrow arched. “Bran? Fun?”

“I _heard_ that,” a voice protests from behind, making them both giggle.

Pod places a gloved hand on top of Joanna’s head, setting her down gently. “Ser Joanna Lannister, you’re the King’s guard in charge now. Take good care of him.”

She giggles again. “I’m no _knight.”_

“Of course you are. Your mother is a knight and so was your father. You’re a knight by birthright.”

She beams harder, albeit squinting in doubt. “There isn't  _really_ such thing, is there?”

“Well—” Laughing, Pod cups her adorable face before kissing her forehead. “It's hard to say. Because, see, there isn't another daughter of two knights, _either._ ”

——————

 

He’s almost downstairs, deep in thought, partly contemplating the various entertainment choices for his newly freed evening, partly wondering whether or not Ser Brienne will find out about this (fully knowing that _‘sure as SEVEN HELLS she will’_ is t he only answe r), partly pondering the idea that he’s not so much concerned about being reprimanded as he is _ashamed,_ deeply so, for taking part in keeping her in the dark about what’s been happening to her own daughter.

“You can come out now,” he sighs, stopping a stair short of the last flight.

A small figure emerges from around the corner, closing the distance between them in several purposeful strides. “You’re getting better at this, Pod. You truly are.”

“No, thank you,” Pod says, declining an offer of wine in the form of one the of two goblets the man holds up.

“Come now, Pod, you look like you need one. You’re _brooding,_ I can tell, and nothing cures a bad case of brooding like a glassful of good Dornish wine. Believe me, I know.”

 _Oh, I *know* you know,_ Pod rolls his eyes, but reaches for the goblet anyway.

“Everything went as planned, I presume?” Tyrion asks after a long pause in which neither one of them speaks, both sipping their wine in uncomfortable silence.

Podrick gulps. “As planned.”

Tyrion waits for him to continue. He doesn’t, staring blankly into his wine. “Pod—” No reply. More brooding. “Pod. Look at me.”

He does this time, hesitantly shifting his eyes upwards. “This is not right, My Lord.”

“No, it is not. But it _is_ necessary. You understand the difference, don’t you, Pod? I would hate to think that all those years I spent grooming you were for nothing.”

“She’s just a child.”

“Yes, she is—”

“She’s Ser _Brienne’s_ child. Her _only_ child. The only thing she has left of—”

“And what is she to me? Nothing?”

The hurt in the dwarf’s voice makes Pod’s heart sink even further. “Please forgive me, My Lord. It’s just that—”

“Pod, we _have_ to. There’s no other choice.”

“Yes, there is. There ought to be. She’s just a little girl. And _that—”_ he motions upwards with his head. “...what he’s doing - what _they’re_ doing - it’s too much. Too much power.”

Tyrion shifts in his place, turning  his back is to the wall such that he’s facing Podrick entirely. “Power. Do you know what it is, Pod? What it _really_ is?”

“My Lord?”

“An old friend of mine said this to me a long time ago: _Power resides where men believe it resides. It’s a trick, a shadow on the wall. And a very small man can cast a very large shadow.”_

Nodding, Podrick considers it for a while before shaking his head. “I’m not sure I understand, My Lord.”

“Of course you do, Pod. Some people strive their whole lives to achieve power. Some of them succeed, others - don’t. It’s how it’s always been, and always will be. But that little girl, she was _born_ into power; born to be the most powerful being that ever lived. If we don’t help her, if we don’t protect her, it’ll consume her, _her_ and the world as we know it.”

“But— how’s dragging her into his visions protecting her? My Lord, she’s not a Three-Eyed Raven. Whatever _else_ she is—”

“Oh but she is. Do you see him dragging you, or me, into _‘his visions’?_ No! Because he can’t, Pod. Because you _have_ to be a Three-Eyed Raven to follow another Three-Eyed Raven.”

“But you said - the _witch_ said - she was—”

“...a Wanderer, yes. The greatest power there ever was, the one where all others come from.” Even repeating the words makes his skin crawl. “That’s how the powers work, Pod. The higher they go, the more powers they possess. Bran is not just a Greenseer, he’s also a Warg. Warg is a lesser power than that of a Greenseer. But any Greenseer is also a Warg. Just like any _Wanderer_ is also a Three-Eyed Raven.”

Another awkward pause follows, punctuated only by the sound of their breathing, interrupted by the occasional squeal of seals in the harbor below.

“You know she only goes to _one_ place,” Pod whispers at last.

Tyrion nods, feeling a cold shiver run down his spine. “I know.”

“She misses him.”

A sting of tears hits the back of his eyes as he shrugs ever so softly. “He was her father.”

“Yes, he _was.”_ Feeling a surge of anger, Podrick looks up. _“Past tense._ And you know what _else_ he was? _Dead._ Before she was born. But you know who _doesn’t_ talk about him in past tense any more? His _daughter._ Because, thanks to you and your grand plan to save her from saving the world, to _her_ he’s not the _past_ anymore. And how _could_ he be if she can see him whenever she wants? Spend as much time with him as she wants?”

“She can’t _spend time_ with him, Pod. You know that. She can _see_ him, true, but that’s it. She can’t touch him, or talk to him. Nor he to her. That’s not how the Greenseer’s powers work.”

“That’s not what _I_ heard. Bran— _His Grace_ once mentioned calling out to _his_ father in one of his visions and having him turn round.”

“...and you _also_ heard him _explain_ it. Or, at least, tell us how that _other_ Three-Eyed Raven explained it. Ned Stark didn’t _hear_ Bran call out to him, not _really.”_

Podrick sets down his glass on the step between them, leaning closer. “But Jo is no _regular_ Three-Eyed Raven, is it not what you said? What the witch told you? _Nobody_ knows the extent of her powers, how far they reach, what she can do. What if one day she calls  out to him and he _hears_ ? _Really_ hears? What if— that’s how it starts? What if that’s how it was always _supposed_ to start? What if everything you’re doing to keep her from her true destiny is actually pushing her further towards it? The witch, she _warned_ you. You said so yourself.”

“Pod—”

Podrick draws a shaky breath, watching as Tyrion’s head shakes in terror, as if begging him not to ask what he _knows_ he’s about to ask. “You said—” he starts slowly, polishing every word.

“Pod.” Tyrion’s face turns ashen as death. “Please—”

“The last thing she said to you. She said—”

 _“You cannot change the future, Tyrion of House Lannister, nor the past. Whatever you do, whatever you think you_ can _do, will be in vain. She is her father’s daughter, your brother’s blood. You should’ve listened to your brother, Tyrion of House Lannister, to the words he lived by, the truth he died for. There’s only one power_ _the_ _world rests upon, stronger than all of its magic_ _put together_ _. Love, Tyrion of House Lannister. Love… And the unspeakable things we’re willing to do for it.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To NikitaSunshine-
> 
> You get me. I wouldn't have been able to do any of this without you. 
> 
> You're the doc, Doc. <3


End file.
